The pan is on the floor.”

My mother came out of the walk-in pantry.

She had a plastic dustpan in one hand and a brush in the other.

She started picking at the edge of her thumbnail as she looked down at us on the floor.

“She just slipped,” my mother said.

“You know how clumsy she gets when she’s acting up.

It’s just a bump on the kitchen floor.”

Emma reached out and grabbed the sleeve of my flannel shirt.